


Sisyphean Love

by Ewokling



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Eventual Smut, F/F, Pining, Reset Theory (Mystic Messenger), Romance, Spoilers, more like reincarnation theory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:35:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27628940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ewokling/pseuds/Ewokling
Summary: Time and time again he's failed to save you from your many horrible fates, the cycle repeating right back where it started. This time around he's not the only one who remembers."Please, he silently begs to the heavens. Please, just this once."
Relationships: 707 | Choi Luciel/Main Character, 707 | Choi Luciel/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 95





	Sisyphean Love

**Author's Note:**

> I started out intending to write just straight-up porn and it turned into...this angsty mess. I'm not so much thinking of reset theory, more of a reincarnation/Groundhog Day type situation going on. This has spoilers for Seven's route so read at your own risk.
> 
> As an addendum I also don't dislike Saeran at all, I just really wanted some angst inserted into this for some godforsaken reason.

* * *

_Did you know it takes Venus longer to rotate around its own axis than it does to orbit once around the Sun?_

Saeyoung looks down at the text you have sent, a slow smile creeping across his lips as he rattles his brain for an adequate response. It’s a morning routine, one that you initiated in fact, after he fanboyed too damn hard in the chatroom about space. It’s almost like clockwork; right at eleven he can expect a text that starts with a good morning, before rattling off something he may or may not already know. It’s a toss up at this point, and you’re getting more niche with the factoids.

Affection grows in his chest, though it’s bittersweet.

Officially speaking, it’s been four days since you’ve become a member of the RFA. Four days since the messenger got hacked, since you came in as nice as could possibly be (despite his initial threat of a lawsuit). Four days since his throat had closed up at the sight of your name, outlined in text in a program he created.

Unofficially, it’s been over fifty-five days, although the outlines and details are always blurred enough that he can’t recall previous events. He lost count somewhere along the way, and every memory feels like a half-dream, too ephemeral to grasp onto fully. The sharp tang of your blood is never something he can completely scrub off of his skin, though, no matter how many times he showers or how many times he rationalizes the blood _isn’t_ real.

He busies himself with his work for the day, periodically checking the camera situated outside the apartment hallway. It eases his anxiety, just a little, that he can see anytime you step out. Most of the time you return with groceries, or the occasional splurge of clothes. Once he caught you on camera weighed down with some sort of art supplies, awkwardly trying to unlock the door with the bags in your arms. He wants to know what they’re being used for.

He straight up lied when he told you there was only the camera in the hallway; the living area and kitchen had one each, nestled into an obscure spot that would be hard to find if you weren’t looking for them. The itch is always there to just switch the monitor to them, to visually see you as you go about your day. Even if it’s simply responding to emails, or making dinner, or utilizing whatever art supplies you now have. He hasn’t. The guilt would feel terrible, and his resolve is only bolstered every time you step out on an errand and wave at the hallway camera, a heartfelt smile on your face.

When dear Madam Vanderwood strides into his house, thoroughly pissed with having to once again recite Arabic to a mechanized door, Saeyoung allows the usual nagging for five minutes before donning his headphones and getting back to work. 

He tries to block out the lingering, acrid smell of nicotine and tar as Vandy moves about the room, shoving empty cans into the garbage bag with clear irritation. 

The sight of you in the hallway some hours later grounds his fraying nerves, only to be perked right up once more as you blow him a quick kiss, absconding immediately out of his line of sight.

  
  


* * *

  
  


“Good mooorning! God Seven, at your service my sweet disciple! I hope you had a good breakfast, not soda and chips like me.”

It’s early, way too fucking early, but as soon as the jingle of his phone went off and he saw your name pop up on the screen it felt like Saeyoung had been jolted with a car battery, excited pins and needles raking across his skin. Seeing you briefly in the hallway, reading your messages in the chatroom, they’re glorious moments of reprieve from the reality of where he sits (especially when you respond to his stupid jokes, the lingo only the two of you seem to understand). Your voice though, always your voice, ascends him to the highest mountains of bliss that he’s allowed, and goddamn does he wish he could record it, play it on repeat for hours.

Just saying his name would be enough. (Even if it isn’t the one he desperately wants to hear. It’s not even his baptismal name; you rarely say it even on more intimate, late night calls.)

He listens with a shit-eating grin on his face as you bid him good morning as well, reassuring that you did eat, and did he know that Mars is the only planet in our solar system entirely populated by robots?

The background noise is accented with the soft clinks of ceramic, and he gets an almost unbearable urge to switch on the monitor to the room. He withholds.

“Did you read the chatroom earlier?”

Your soft words take Saeyoung off guard, and he doesn’t like the fact that he can hear the slight fear and anxiety hidden within them. It makes his stomach feel like lead, growing heavier as you continue.

“Jaehee and Yoosung both got strange alarms on their phones, weird emails, too.”

He takes it back; he doesn’t just dislike the tone in your voice: he absolutely hates it. So he calls upon his best defense mechanism, and the strategy he knows will cheer you up at least enough. This time, though, there’s a tense silence after his jokes encompassing the space you normally fill with your own brand of light-hearted banter.

“...Luciel?”

His baptismal name combined with the slight waver in your voice is enough for Saeyoung to still completely in his chair, the urge to speed over to the apartment clawing up his chest.

“Do you ever feel deja vu?” You ask warily.

* * *

He’s an idiot, he thinks, hands shaking as he sets up the mess of cables and tech in the living room corner. An idiot of the highest goddamn order, not even fit to be breathing the same air his twin had been hours earlier.

_Saeran, hand around your throat, looking for all the world like a negative of Saeyoung himself._

The apartment feels like a graveyard, and in a way it is. This time he’s managed to do one thing right, although there are still many other locations slated as a metaphorical grave where your corpse could lay. This knowledge is the only thing keeping Saeyoung from flying completely off the rails, coupled with the fact that you’re in the same room, quietly going about your motions on the phone. He doesn’t bother to ask what you’re doing; he knows you’re still dutifully responding to guest emails, calming the panic from the others in the chatroom. 

It’s fucking insane, Saeyoung thinks, that you’re capable of retaining some semblance of calm when hours ago your life was at stake.

You don’t speak to him for the rest of the day, retreating into the bedroom once you can’t keep your eyes open any longer. He knows what you’re doing, that you’re silently watching to make sure he’s okay, and the sick taste of bile stings his mouth. You are the one that should be taken care of. _You_ are the one that should be having meals prepared for.

The apartment is stocked with a surprising amount of PhD Pepper and Honey Buddha, a fact which makes him tremble with a juxtaposition of unbridled affection and overwhelming guilt. You’ve made a point to silently bring some to his side as he works, a bowl or plate of whatever meal you’d made placed alongside them.

Saeyoung’s never had a home-cooked meal in his life, and your’s tastes like heaven.

It’s late into the evening the following night, the only glow coming from the LCD monitors before him and a lamp you’re seated under as you draw...whatever you’ve been working on for the last few days. He runs his hands through his hair, fully aware that the frustrated motions are making his curls more pronounced, probably making him look like he’s just crawled up from a ditch.

It honestly feels like he has.

Mumbling meets his ears, and he turns to catch sight of your form, peacefully asleep on the couch with a drawing pad in your lap. With every exhale a piece of hair fluffs up and down, barely tickling your perfect lips, and Saeyoung finds himself fixated on the motion, torn between keeping the space between you two and carrying you to the more-comfortable bed. His weakness wins over, and he ignores the ache in his limbs from sitting for so long as he steps towards you quietly.

He pauses, reaching out to entwine his fingers gently in your hair and marveling at the soft texture, immediately regretting it when you stir. Your eyes lock onto his, still half-lidded with sleep, but beneath the curve of your eyelashes they melt into an expression of absolute warmth that makes Saeyoung almost positive he’s having a fucking heart attack.

“The full moon always rises at sunset,” You say, and he can’t tell whether your words are another one of your seemingly infinite space facts, or if they have a heavier, double meaning.

Saeyoung is about to pull back, ashamedly give more distance between the two of you even if he’s made a fool of himself, but his eyes catch the drawing in your lap. 

His heart feels like its simultaneously breaking and swelling in equal measure.

A blush rises to your face, but your eyes remain steadfast on his own

“Look,” You say quietly, gesturing to the illustration. “You and me, at the space station. Just like you said.”

It’s impossible, he tries to convince himself. There’s no way you should have any memory or feelings from the previous heartbreaking experiences, let alone remember something he typed days ago, weeks ago, another lifetime ago. Lifetimes ago, he corrects himself, almost breaking down like a fucking child.

(He doesn’t think about how impossible it should be for _him_ to remember fleeting glimpses as well.)

His lips are moving before he can swallow the words: “You remember? ...Everything?”

You shake your head slowly. “No, not everything. Bits and pieces here and there. The only thing I do know,” At this you take in a shaky breath, finally looking away from his impenetrable golden eyes. “Is that when I first saw you in the chatroom I...felt like I’d come home.”

Saeyoung knows he sounds stupid, but he asks anyway. “H-home?”

“I can tell I’ve been here before, many times. Unfamiliar places, messages and words. Pain,” You add, a small tremor coursing through your bones. “But with you there’s this feeling.”

He can’t tell whether he’s going insane or not; everything feels simultaneously too far away and yet too much as his hummingbird heart thumps uncomfortably in his chest. In all the times before, as much as he can remember, nothing has happened quite like this. Saeyoung shouldn’t feel so blissfully happy, because the vague recollection of times with him also came at a price, and he knows in his heart you’re aware of the fact that you once died in this apartment.

On the very floor a few feet away. At the hands of his sibling.

You look back up at him again, moisture pooling in the corners of your eyes. Before he can help it he’s brushing them away with his thumb, your skin unbelievably soft beneath his calloused hands.

“It’s you, Saeyoung. It’s always been you.”

All resolve crumbles.

His body is moving before he can even reconsider, both palms cupping your cheeks as he pulls you in for a needful, greedy kiss. His heart feels like goddamn Ouroboros; shattering into pieces and yet mending back together at the same time.

Responding with equal passion one of your small hands comes up to wind in his hair, the other tracing the planes of his jaw. Saeyoung drowns in your being; the feel of your hands, the scent of your skin, the sweet taste of your mouth. He’s done with pretending like he doesn’t ache for you every second of the day, and he couldn’t give less fucks about the fact he’s supposed to be rewriting the security code. 

There’s no telling if this go around is any different, or if soon you’ll be lying in a pool of your own blood from his constant ineptitude. He needs it, needs you, and this might be his only chance to show you how much you mean to him now with the burden of prior knowledge on your shoulders as well.

_Please_ , he silently begs to the heavens. _Please, just this once._

You pull him down onto the couch cushions, and he’s only momentarily stunned at just how perfectly your body fits against his. He’s working his way down your neck, desperate kisses and love marks trailing behind as a way for him to somehow, some way, leave a mark on you. Praying that it can transcend whatever fucked up Groundhog Day you’re both living in.

With a frustrated tug the fabric of your shirt is pulled upwards, and you fling it halfway across the room without a glance, Saeyoung quickly following suit. His hands roam over your body, reverent as he continues his ministrations on your neck, the bud of your nipple pinched between his dexterous fingers. With one hand you remove his glasses, the other scraping across the skin of his back as pleased moans escape your lips.

Saeyoung is determined to give you as much pleasure as he possibly can, leave you so satisfied that the horrible memories never broach your mind again. Or at least, for tonight. He wastes no time with your pants, letting out a silent curse at the damnable fabric, and he leans back to take in the sight of you. Your chest rises and falls quickly, red marks adorning the delicate skin, and you part your lips to desperately give him reprimand.

“Saeyoung, please.”

He settles himself between your thighs, reveling in the way you shudder just with a simple press of his lips on the inner portion, before slowly, achingly, making his way closer towards your center. You’re already leaking, fluid spilling out onto the couch fabric, and in seconds it’s coating his fingers as they press inside. The moans spilling from your mouth are the most beautiful sounds he’s ever heard, and Saeyoung puts his tongue to good use on the sensitive nub above where he’s curling his fingers, hoping to commit the sound of you moaning his name (his real name) to memory forever.

One of your hands fist in his hair, thighs trembling as you press the back of the other to your mouth in an attempt to stem the cries. He leaves the work he’s doing to his fingers, pressing his forehead against yours and pulling away the hand to press it beside you, digits intertwining. 

“I want to hear you,” He says, voice a mixture of command and desperation.

“Please, S-Saeyoung. I need you.”

How can he possibly deny you when you ask?

He brings his coated fingers to his mouth, tasting you on his tongue once more before situating his cock right outside your entrance. Stuttered gasps leave your lips, though he’s barely touching your folds, and he looks up as the hand wound in his hair moves to his cheek.

“I love you.” Your words are breathless, eyes alight, and he knows that you mean it with every fiber of your being.

_It’s always been you._

He begins slowly sheathing himself inside of you. With both foreheads pressed together he can hear the moans clearly, feel the puff of breath from your lips as you stutter his name.

You catch his lip between your teeth, bringing him down to meet as he begins his pacing. The hand that’s pressed to the cushion is tightening around his, in time with your walls, and Saeyoung groans before trailing his other down towards your clit, determined to coax as much pleasure from your body as he can. 

Legs wrap around his waist, pushing him further inside, and he breaks away from your lips towards the sensitive curve of your neck, nipping and sucking at every inch he can reach. Nails scrape against his back, hard, the action driving him closer and closer towards impending release.

“I want you to come,” He says, breath ghosting against the shell of your ear. There’s no way in hell he’s doing it before you do, and from the way your expression glazes over he can tell you’re close.

The words barely escape your lips. “P-Please don’t s-stop, I’m so close, S-Saeyoung!”

He flicks his wrist, forefinger and thumb teasing your clit. “Come for me, baby.”

As if waiting for command or permission, you do, eyes rolling back into your head as he swallows your moans with a kiss. Your walls are too tight around his cock, pulsating as if to milk him for everything he has, and he bottoms out inside of you two more times before filling completely. 

His arms are shaking, dangerously close to giving up on the task of holding him up. As much as it pains him to do it he extricates himself from you, thumb brushing across your cheek while he presses every single emotion he holds in a kiss.

“I love you, too.”

You once asked him if he believed in soulmates. Saeyoung settles down on the couch, your face buried in the damp crook of his neck. 

Yes, he thinks. Ever since he met you.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
